by Mark Mills
"Someone has been stealing my tomatoes."
It was hard to imagine anyone wanting to steal her tomatoes; they were so small and pitiful.
"Forgive them. They must really be in need."
Antonella's affronted scowl softened to a smile, and she laughed.
It was a narrow house built around two sides of an open yard paved with bricks. On the third side rose a barn, connected to the house by a high wall with an arched gateway bearing a carved escutcheon of the Docci family, with its rampant boar. The stucco on the house had crumbled away in parts to reveal stone walls beneath. An exterior staircase led to the human accommodation on the second floor—"The animals live downstairs, well, not at the moment."
The rooms were barely furnished; they didn't require it. The floors, doors, ceilings and walls were all features in their own right, all ancient, all handcrafted. Her bedroom consisted of little more than a wrought-iron bed, a chest of drawers and a couple of pictures. It was enough. The sight of her discarded nightshirt on the unmade bed was mildly distracting.
A ham was boiling away on the stove in the kitchen, the largest room in the house by some margin. Its beams were browned with age and smoke, and there was a table big enough to plan an invasion on. They weren't going to be eating here, though; they were going to be eating outside. Which is where Adam came in.
His job was to rig up a tarpaulin as a sunshade in the yard. Everything he required was in the barn, including the trestle table and chairs.
Antonella approved of his construction, and once he'd laid the table and folded the napkins and found cushions for some of the chairs, she joined him outside, rewarding him with a glass of the wine he'd brought. She examined the label approvingly before she poured.
"I thought you were a student."
"Grandmother's best."
"To grandmother," she said, offering her glass to be clinked.
"Grandmother. May she live to be a hundred."
"Oh, don't worry, she will. Maurizio is convinced of it."
"Maurizio?"
She smiled enigmatically.
"What?" demanded Adam.
"He is a bit nervous, I think. No one knows what her plans are now that she has . . . come to life again. He has waited a long time for the villa. He thought it would be his when Nonna died."
"I hope he doesn't blame me."
"You?"
He told her how Maurizio had searched him out in the garden with his concerns about his mother. He told her he had detected a degree of antagonism on Maurizio's part, although he didn't reveal that he had repaid like with like. He also mentioned the painkillers, reckoning she had a right to know. Antonella seemed more surprised by the fact that Maria had shared the information about the doctor's visit with Maurizio.
"She doesn't like Maurizio."
"Or maybe she's just genuinely concerned for your grandmother."
"Maybe."
"I know I am. She could be running herself into the ground."
"If she is, nothing will stop her."
"That's very fatalistic."
The slight barb wasn't lost on Antonella. Her eyes fastened on him, dark and hard.
"I love my grandmother, but I also know her well."
They were rescued by the sound of an approaching vehicle. It blew into the yard in a cloud of white dust: one car, three couples crammed into it. The yard was soon filled with the sounds of laughter.
Two hours later, it was still echoing off the walls. No amount of food or wine—and both kept rolling down the staircase from the house—could dampen it. They even played a game of hoops in between two of the courses. The game was a gift to Antonella from her brother, Edoardo, a private joke lost on the rest of the company, and one the siblings refused to share.
Edoardo had his sister's jet-black hair and olive skin. He was a year or so younger than her, big and ebullient, humorous and shrewd. It was hard not be sucked along in his slipstream. The only person who seemed impervious to its pull was his girlfriend, Grazia—a fellow law student. She was also the only person who didn't speak English, not that this stopped her trying to speak it, and at the breakneck speed she spoke her own language. The result was a tumbling Babel of words, most of them French. Whenever Edoardo tried to correct her, she would round on him and say, "Zitto! Capisce. Non e vero, Adamo?"
"Shut up. He understands. Don't you, Adam?"
To which Adam would invariably reply, "Absolutely."
"Absolutely" became something of a calling cry. It started when Enrico, newly wed to Venetian Claudia with the cornflower-blue eyes, was offered a top-up of wine. "Absolutely," he replied. And it went from there.
Italy is changing fast, now that we've joined the Common Market. Absolutely. Domenico Modugno should have won the Euro- vision Song Contest with "Nel Blu Dipinto di Blu." Absolutely.
The word only lost its currency when, as the coffee hit the table, someone remarked that the Christian Democrat Party was riddled with former Fascists.
"Be careful what you say," chipped in the cartoonist who wanted to be a painter. "Their uncle was a Fascist, was he not?"
It was Edoardo who replied. "Absolutely. And it was Fascists who killed him. So what does that tell you?"
The cartoonist apologized for the comment, was forgiven, and the word didn't rear its head again. The mood remained buoyant, but Adam now found himself struggling to keep up. The banter and the bonhomie had been welcome diversions; they had allowed him to forget about the photograph tucked between the pages of his notebook lying on the sideboard in the kitchen. But now that Emilio had barged his way into the conversation, back into Adam's thoughts, there was no ignoring him.
While the others rattled on around the table, his mind wandered elsewhere—to Gregor Mendel and recessive genes and ear- lobes and the old photo of the rowing crew on the wall of Professor Leonard's rooms in Jesus College. He tried to prevent them straying further afield, into darker territory, where his conversations with Fausto lurked.
He chipped in from time to time, covering for his distraction, and when the other guests finally left, he was relieved to be forced back to the world around him, pumping hands and kissing cheeks and waving as the car disappeared up the hard white track to San Casciano, carried on a billowing dust cloud.
He said he'd help tidy up, an offer gratefully accepted by Antonella. They worked hard, methodically, until all that remained was a pile of dripping crockery on the draining board and a red wine stain on the bricks in the yard, where a glass had been toppled.
They retired to a makeshift wooden bench on a grassy rise beside the barn. It was a calm and peaceful spot, the shifting shadows retouching the landscape as the sun slowly dropped away to the west.
"What a place to live," said Adam. "You're very lucky."
"Oh, I pay for it. The estate needs all the money it can get."
"Things are bad?"
"Not just here—everywhere."
She explained that the family that had occupied the house for countless generations had recently moved on, abandoning the countryside for the town, as many were now doing. The moment new tenants were found, she'd be out.
He was surprised to hear that the estate was run on a sharecrop- ping basis—mezzadria—an arrangement whereby a family received a house and some land rent-free from the Doccis in exchange for half of the produce generated.
"It sounds almost feudal."
"That's because it is—from the Middle Ages—but things are changing now. There are politicians in Rome who say mezzadria must go. If it does, everything here will change. My grandmother worries a lot. I tell her not to. Maurizio is rich, he will make things work."
"What does he do?"
"He buys and sells things."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that make a profit. He also has two factories in Prato, for clothes. He has made a lot of money since the war."
Adam hesitated. "What was Emilio like?"
"Emilio? Why do you ask?"
"J
ust curious. He was mentioned at lunch."
She helped herself to another of his cigarettes. "Well, he was a Fascist, it's true. Many people were, my grandparents too, at the beginning. They stopped believing." She stared off into the distance. "I was young, but I remember him. He was always reading books. And he made me laugh. He made us all laugh." She smiled wistfully. "The funny Fascist."
"How did they get on, Emilio and Maurizio?"
Her glance said it all: What's it to you?
He was pushing too hard; he needed to tread carefully.
"I mean, their politics were different. Maurizio was a partisan, no?"
Was it motive enough for murder?
"Who told you that?"
"A chap called Fausto, from San Casciano."
She didn't know him, although the name rang a vague bell.
"It's true, Maurizio was a partisan, and a socialist. He claims he still is a socialist." There was a note of good-natured cynicism in her voice. "My grandmother says he fought the Germans because he was always fighting, even when he was a boy. He hates it when she says that."
But he didn't fight them the night they killed Emilio, did he?
Adam kept this observation to himself, as he did the other questions hammering away in his head. Why had her grandfather sealed off the top floor? As some kind of shrine? Shrines were conceived to be visited; they were places you went to in order to pay your respects. Why close a door and lock it? Why oblige your family to live with the painful memory, rather than allowing it to dissipate over the years? What had Maria said about that deserted floor frozen in time? "It sits over the house like a curse."
Dusk was falling when he finally left. Antonella said she'd accompany him back to the villa; she'd hardly seen her grandmother all weekend.
They took a path that wound through the olive grove beneath the farmhouse. It was her path, she said. It hadn't existed a year ago; hers were the only feet to have beaten it into existence. The air grew cooler as they worked their way down through the serried ranks of trees. Fireflies bobbed in the gathering gloom, and the smell of wild herbs came in faint waves: thyme, rosemary and mint. They barely spoke. When Antonella lost her footing on a steep bank, she gripped his arm to steady herself and his hand instinctively went to the gentle curve at the base of her back.
"Thank you," she said softly as they released each other.
His feeling of contentment faded a touch when they entered the memorial garden. He told her about the unnatural wind that had dropped to earth earlier in the day, rushing through the garden.
"Yes, it happens sometimes in summer. I don't know why." They walked on a little way. "The breath of the gods," she said absently. "That's what the Greeks called the wind."
They stopped at the foot of the amphitheater and looked up at Flora, the fireflies fussing around her like solicitous consorts.
He felt a sudden urge to share her secret, their secret. He fought the impulse, but only momentarily.
He told Antonella everything he knew. He told her about the dark wood and the triumphal arch and its anagrammatic inscription of inferno. He told her about Dante's nine circles of Hell and the second circle of the adulterers. He told it as it was, without embellishment. And when he was finished he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Antonella didn't speak at first. When she did, it was in Italian. "Incredibile."
"Maybe I'm wrong."
"No," she said with quiet conviction.
"I can't figure out the rest of the cycle. It doesn't make sense."
"You will. It will."
"Something bad happened. I can feel it. I just can't see it."
She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. "Bravo, Adamo. Really. Bravo."
He wasn't good with compliments, but he knew what to do when he saw her head drawing closer, her neck arching, her lips reaching for his.
They kissed gently. Then again, less gently, their tongues searching each other out. He felt the heat coming off her, and the twin pressure of her breasts against his chest.
When they finally drew apart, she said in a whisper, "I told myself I wouldn't."
"That's interesting, I told myself I would."
He could just make out her smile in the deepening darkness.
They were still holding hands when they left the garden, sidestepping through the yew hedge. They only released each other when, nearing the villa, she stopped to remove a stone from her shoe.
"Why did you tell yourself you wouldn't?"
She slipped her shoe back on and stood upright. "Because you are going soon."
"A week."
"It will only make it worse."
"But think—what a week."
He reached for her and she playfully slapped his hand away.
It came at them clear through the still night air—laughter from up at the villa. A devilish cackle. Disturbing if you'd never heard it before. More disturbing if you had.
"Oh Christ."
"What?" asked Antonella.
"Harry . . ." said Adam, breasting the steps to the back terrace. "What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like? Having dinner with a beautiful woman."
Signora Docci smiled indulgently.
"I thought you wouldn't get the money till tomorrow."
"Arrived the day you sent it."
Adam tried his best to sound pleased. "Good."
"Bad," said Harry.
"Bad?"
"It's a long story."
"It is," said Signora Docci.
Harry turned to her. "But not uninteresting."
"No, not uninteresting."
Oh Christ, thought Adam. "When did you get here?" he asked, trying to mask the strain in his voice. "A few hours ago."
Long enough to have done untold damage.
"Nice lunch?" asked Harry.
"Yes, great—sorry—this is Antonella."
Harry got to his feet. He was wearing a grubby Aertex shirt, khaki army shorts that reached well below the knee, and his feet were squeezed into black gym shoes, one of them worn away at the end so that his big toe poked through. He stooped to kiss Antonella's hand, considerately removing his cigarette before he did so. "Antonella," said Harry. "Harry," said Antonella. "Nice dress." "Nice shorts."
"Thank you. Practical in this heat." "Absolutely," said Antonella, for Adam's benefit. "Please . . ." said Harry, pulling a chair back for her. "Thank you."
"Have you eaten?" Signora Docci asked.
Adam held up his hands in surrender. "Enough for a couple of days."
"Antonella is an excellent cook."
"She certainly is," Adam replied, wondering for a moment if he was trapped in a Jane Austen novel.
Fortunately, at that moment Harry chirped up, bringing them back to some kind of reality. "So's Maria."
Maria had just stepped from the villa, carrying a tray. Harry adopted an exaggerated Italian accent. "Vitello con sugo di . . ."
"Pomodoro," said Maria.
"Pomodoro!" trumpeted Harry. "Magnifico!"
Suddenly, the Jane Austen novel didn't seem such a bad prospect. Better that than Harry's impression of Mr. Mannucci who used to sell them ice creams from the back of his van when they still lived in Kennington.
Maria produced a rare smile, surprisingly coy.
"Grazie," she said, clearing away the empty plates.
"Harry was just telling me a joke," said Signora Docci.
She looked invigorated, and maybe a little drunk. Or maybe it's the painkillers, thought Adam.
"You were in the English Channel," she went on, "in the seventeenth century."
"Right, that's right, so anyway . . . the captain of the naval frigate raises the telescope to his eye and he sees five pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them. 'Bring me my red shirt,' he says to his lieutenant. 'Your red shirt, sir?' 'Just do it, man.'
"Anyway, they engage the pirate ships and a fierce battle ensues. The captain's in the thick of it, fightin
g hand-to-hand, running pirates through all over the place. And against terrible odds they capture all five of the pirate ships. When it's over and everyone's celebrating, the lieutenant asks the captain why he asked for his red shirt. The captain says it was so that if he was wounded the men wouldn't see the blood and wouldn't lose heart. Everyone cheers— 'What a hero our captain is.' "
Harry took a short draw on his cigarette, then crushed it in the ashtray.
"So . . ." he went on, a sparkle in his eye, "a few days later they're still patroling in the Channel when another shout comes down from the crow's-nest. The captain raises the telescope to his eye and this time he sees twenty pirate ships on the horizon, bearing down on them fast. The captain lowers his glass and turns to his lieutenant. 'Lieutenant,' he says. 'Yes, Captain?' 'Bring me my brown trousers.'"
In Harry's defense, he never laughed at his own jokes. But then again, not many other people did, either. This one was different, though, this one wasn't half-bad. Even Adam found himself chuckling, partly from relief that the punch line hadn't been cruder.
Harry turned to Adam. "That one got them," he said.
Signora Docci and Antonella were still laughing when Maria appeared with the cheese platter.
The rest of dinner was an ordeal. When Adam looked at Signora Docci, he saw Professor Leonard; when he looked at Antonella, he saw himself kissing her in the garden; and when he looked at Harry, he found himself wondering if one of them had been adopted.
Harry dominated, he seized the steering wheel and told you to sit back and enjoy the ride, because that's what you were going on, whether you liked it or not. Strangely, neither Signora Docci nor Antonella appeared to mind.
Harry announced that he'd come to Italy to visit the Venice Biennale, the international art festival. This was news to Adam, and not unwelcome news—it meant Harry had somewhere else to go to. British artists were a world force to be reckoned with right now, Harry insisted, especially in the field of sculpture, his field. Lynn Chadwick had snatched the sculpture prize from under Giacometti's nose at the last Biennale, and there were many British contemporaries right up there with him, worthy heirs to Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth: Meadows, Frink, Thornton, Hoskin—mere names until he brought them to life with his vivid descriptions of their work.